the farther
into my personal
disillusionment
i stumble
the more
seem to be called
by this
illusionary sense
that my broken
is a tragedy

which just
showcases
how sad
the world is
when truth
is seen as
a revelation

we spend
so long
searching for
the right lighting
the right angle
the right filter
to make our
ugly
something the world
will perceive
as beauty

we lose
ourselves

we give away
the best
pieces of ourselves
for the fleeting
adoration of
a world waiting
for the next
stimuli
to pull it
from moments
where things get
dangerously close
to real

sometimes it takes
falling apart
to see
how much of us
is scattered
among the aether
where broken hearts
sing along
to the
choir of lonely
crystalized
soulshatter

in the illusionary
disilluision
focus is a razor
with no dull edge
where truth bleeds
into the collapsed
lung of aspirations